Blunt

The screen clears, no pain or tears,
Cuts on the sears, a pool of fears,
Will they leave me, my rhyming spree?
Will I have to be, that leafless tree?

I’m eating a lot but I still crave,
Safe yet scared in my lone cave,
Will I just take a book to the grave?
Will this be all that I ever gave?

But then again, who knows the pain?
We write in vain, design? No, a stain.
Blunt is the wick, gone is the kick,
We hone till slick, click or no click.

They who know us know this,
Those who don’t are in bliss,
Irony is to sing one’s own diss,
Maybe, it’s good to be amiss.

Deforestation

A writer sits at the pine table, trying to doodle a sketch,
the image of the very fable, that would some riches fetch.
Cold winds are on the window, the hearth is kindling warm.
A few crumbled papers to throw, assures the fire no harm.

The wood that was set on fire, keeps the writer sane.
But let me sing the wood's lyre, the big fat tree's bane.
The big fat tree of the wood, the tree that never moved.
A squirrel came in search of food, whose guilt never proved.

Tickling and pulling the twig, solacing in the moist heart.
The squirrel loved the tangy fig, and thence never apart.
But then came a fateful day, the fate's axe stuck the trunk.
Reality had to have its way, woods were carried by the hunk.

The squirrel ran fast and swift, until the truck was lost.
And thence came no tangy gift, but squirrel wouldn't exhaust.
In every way the squirrel knew, tried to pour life into stump.
Drops of water at roots it threw, but never was seen a hump.

The squirrel thence carved art, in memory of the old pal.
The friends were now worlds apart, not humans to text or call.
The woods burnt in the hearth, feel cozy o dear writer.
The squirrel wails in the darth, let's make your day brighter.

May this fire not bring hopeful rays, may your art fetch love.
May it help you find solace, for the tree isn't alive now.
Become a writer, great writer, don't forget the wood that burnt.
Make our lives one bit lighter, help us live though we weren't.

Ill

Wishing I was stuck in a famine, the bones of a starved feline,
why didn't I have a bent spine, the woes of the straight pine,
Wondering if my eyes were azure, would notice that for sure,
Visible diseases would've been a lure, I might have got a cure.

Hurt my hand whilst firing a gun, plaster moulds would've been fun,
Should've weighed closer to a ton, planning to run eating a bun.
Jumped out of a running train, smashing a rock into my brain,
I wouldn't be left out in disdain, they would know I am in pain.

All I have is a parasite that feeds, my peace plants and dream seeds.
The monster makes me do deeds, out of its wild instinctual needs.
Not a microscope sees it in light, but only the loneliness of a night.
Not everyone sees me fight, nor can they hear my deafening plight.

I see this night with hope, try not to get into the loop of the rope,
With even misfortunes elope, learn to adapt and learn to cope.

Narcissistic

Hanging by the bus doors, doing them daily chores,
standing in the metros, wooing are the bent roads,
Teaching all the rich brats, racing with dumb rats,
bleaching lively dreams, embracing scum screams,
Moving from love to rap, trying to fit a power nap,
Cooing in the archives, crying not to live but survive,
Romanticizing the pain, walking in the autumn rain,
Internalising the stigmatic, talking like a pragmatic,
Waiting for a better tomorrow, praying no sorrow,
Plaiting words into verses, praising pain reimburses,
Hoping karma hits back, learning whatever we lack,
stroking the itchy beard, yearning for love is weird,
craving attention here, obsessing over my one self,
saving all that's given, caressing the broken yet driven.

Sober

Running in the background, noises of the existence,
I am seeking a divine sound, trying to make sense.

Everyone has a divine voice, their silence is selfish,
Oh their grace their poise, they do eat the shell fish.

Mental health and black lives, we care for humanity.
I am a pussy with nine lives, not letting go my vanity.

We love or hate all others, we didn't see their hustle.
You're all my soul brothers, until the leaves rustle.

You're wrong if you blame us, let it be upto thyself,
Stop trying to be famous, you disgrace of an elf.

We gotta shout and scream, be a savior on the wire.
We gotta show-off the ice cream, fame on our pyre.

We have a opinion on all there is, act we shall not,
Ain't no expert, ain't no whiz, accept we shall not.

Spirits from the hypocrite, drunk is my man Homer,
Troy and sparta win the fight, I witness it sober.